


of Blood and Virtue

by Taeyn



Series: to live forever [2]
Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Canon Compliant, Conversations, Divination, Gen, Literature, Murder Foreshadowing, Philosophy, Pre-Bacchanal, Right and Wrong, narrated by Camilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9137263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taeyn/pseuds/Taeyn
Summary: I exhaled, a strange, wild relief bubbling through my chest at this small victory. The fabric of the air buzzed and shimmered, gauzy wet on my skin.Yes,it seemed to say.This way.Francis, Charles and Camilla row out onto the lake in summer.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JazzBaby466](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzBaby466/gifts).



“I’m not talking about right and wrong, I’m talking about _justice_ ,” Francis was saying, cigarette fumbled between his lips as he pulled on the oars. A sliver of light reflected from his watch, and it danced over his black cashmere coat like a dragonfly. “Where Agamemnon once scarified Iphigenia to the blade, now he shall be scarified. Where he bloodied the Trojans, now he will be bloodied. A knife can contain the virtue of justice without any bearing whatsoever on its _rightness_.”

“An argument hinged on your supposition that his death wasn’t _right_ ,” Charles said lazily, his drawl humming by my ear. My head was laying in his lap, my legs bare and stretched over Francis’s knees. It was a debate that started on our car trip over, now spilled down to the lake and the rowboat, idle as a game of croquet. “When rightness is so often prescribed by what one deserves, merits, or is entitled to.”

I shot him a sleepy smile. Charles is neither allied to Locke nor a Stoic in the broadest sense, but it was a dizzy, champagne-bright day, and Francis rarely got so worked up.

“A restoration of natural balance? Well _now_ we’re just debating the sacrificial dilemma,” Francis huffed, eyes wide and impeaching beneath his tangled hair. He took a breath and exhaled toward his brow, his angular face taut with concentration. I moved my foot, gently nudging his elbow. _We’re only teasing._ He ignored me.

“What about a repair of the peace?” Charles mused, and he reached his fingertips to trail in the slipstream. “Or rather, mitigating the potential for further harm. The man slayed his own _daughter_ , Francis. That says something.”

“It still comes back to pure and impure violence,” Francis retorted, shifting his long legs down the hull of the boat. It made us rock for a moment, a short, jarring motion, then settled back to pace. “That the reason for the slaying purifies the violence of the ritual itself.”

“Purity is as much a construct as all our other hang-ups.” Charles shrugged. He fetched his hand away from the water, droplets and yellow birch leaves fluttering past my cheeks. “The desire to retaliate against those who hurt us, the flaw of imagining ourselves in another’s place…”

“It’s fear,” Francis interrupted, the oars making a low, creaky sound as he steered us toward the embankment. “It’s fear and it’s _primitive_ and it’s that whole Kleinian concept of pollution- that our badness, gods forbid, might overcome our worth. So go ahead, why don’t you. Stamp out the badness as you would a fire!”

He glanced at me, a contrite flinch as his outburst echoed over the lake. Francis raises his voice so seldom, I think he’s still as surprised as us to hear it.

“Really Charles, I think you just need to re-read it,” he said briskly, and I pulled myself upright to see what he was ducking away from. Back on the jetty, even Henry and Richard had paused their conversation to stare at us. Charles hovered an eyebrow, then couldn’t hold it and burst into laughter instead.

“Let’s not get you started on _enkrateia_ ,” I said to Francis, fond. He was blinking and glaring in turn, forcefully scrubbing his cigarette out on the rim of the boat. I shuffled over the bench to offer a hug, and he cracked a smile in spite of himself.

“Should’ve marooned you when I had the chance,” he muttered, but squeezed an arm around my shoulders, accepting the apology all the same. Then, more distractedly, “gosh, you’re warm.”

“Mm,” I agreed, wondering if I hadn’t sat up too quickly. The sunlight was bouncing hazardously off the lake, skewed and disjointed on the haze of vapour above. It looked to me like fireflies, nightfall turned inside out. “It’s hot.”

“Have some water,” Francis replied, our discourse forgotten as he reached for the thermos.

“Drat,” said Charles, and I saw him rifling beneath the wooden panels. “Didn’t we used to keep a parasol here?”

“It rotted,” Francis said gloomily, unscrewing the cap on the thermos and holding it out like a cup.

“I’m alright.” I smiled, reaching to help him. Francis stopped me with a no-nonsense frown, carefully pouring the cup of water on my behalf. Charles, meanwhile, had unknotted the white tennis sweater he had round his waist, and now held it above me as a makeshift shade.

“Really,” I laughed, “dare I look over my shoulder, or are Henry and Richard swimming to bring me a fan?”

“Would you like one?” asked Francis, worriedly scanning the tamarack trees. “If there were only more low-growing ferns…”

“I’ll stick to what we came for,” I reassured him, feeling it was best to nip the idea in the bud. Francis came up in a terrible rash last time he went foraging in the rushes, and this wouldn’t take more than a second in any case. I pressed a finger to my lips, felt Charles sip a breath as he turned to look. There, right where I had dreamed it would be, was _laurus nobilis_. A bay laurel shrub.

“By the eye of Delphi,” Francis whispered, and Charles reached for my hand. “How on earth did you know it was here?”

“I have no idea,” I said truthfully. The plant wasn’t native to the region, and packaged leaves from the grocer had so far proved useless in our endeavours. But if the ancients had taught us anything, it was that our minds had capacity for more than our conscious, and the great, undiscovered art was learning to look with both.

Charles jerked his head to Francis, who switched to holding the sweater-marquee whilst he took a Swiss army knife from his pocket. I rolled my eyes affectionately at them both, but the gesture only made me lightheaded.

“Thank you,” I offered instead, and Francis leaned across to kiss my cheek.

“I’ll make you an iced squash at the house,” he murmured. “It’s far too humid to be out.”

“Think that’ll be enough?” Charles asked, showing us the freshly cut stems. We nodded, and Charles placed them in the small pouch we had carried for the occasion. I exhaled, a strange, wild relief bubbling through my chest at this small victory. The fabric of the air buzzed and shimmered, gauzy wet on my skin.

 _Yes,_ it seemed to say. _This way._

The boys swapped seats, Charles rowing vigorously back to the jetty and Francis making us laugh with his recount of how Richard had stumbled upon the first batch. I occasionally peered over the painted brim to glimpse Henry explaining something to our new companion, his face thoughtful and grave. I assumed it was a discourse- Henry had lately felt more comfortable sharing his thoughts with Richard, as obscure as they could often be. It wasn’t until we drew up beside that I realised it was a matter far, far more serious.

“We saw an ortyx,” Richard said, volunteering an account for Henry’s brooding glare. With Richard, these sort of explanations often sounded like admissions of guilt. “Which portends, apparently,” his eyes flicked carefully to Henry, who chose not to intervene. “To victory over a formidable obstacle.”

Charles’s arm twitched against mine, and Francis swallowed so hard I thought he’d inhaled a gnat.

“Help us with the rope, will you?” I asked Richard gently, throwing him the tattered cord to secure the rowboat. My gaze travelled to Henry, his stare patiently waiting for me. He had his hands folded neatly at his front, but he unclasped them and took a step forward as Richard went on.

“The bird was hovering against the wind-” Richard knelt down to steady us. Francis was already making a clumsy attempt to get out, while Charles seemed unable to move at all. “Which signifies that things may not be as they appear.”

I conveyed from Henry’s posture that a good deal more had been exchanged, but Richard had done his best to understand and put together the gist of it.

“And its feathers were black as ink,” Richard hesitated. He could recognise that these statements held meaning for us, though through no fault of his own, matters of science were often beyond his experience. “Which, according to Henry that is, foretells-”

“A show of the unseen.” Henry held out his hand to steady me, and I placed my palm in his. He smiled, straightened, and guided me into his arms. “A warning of danger.”

-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :') Kudos and comments are always adored and appreciated! <3


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